


deaky has regrets

by blobfish_miffy



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Friendship, Holidays, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Road Trips, Sort Of, TOO caring, and it's very hot, brian is caring, briefly, but he loves all his mates very much, in france that is, jim and freddie have the relationship you want and deserve, john is annoyed by everyone and everything, roger has no regard for his own safety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: Birthday present for nowhereminded.The temperature in the van is high enough to wear light clothing, but low enough to not sweat buckets. Still, John feels sticky in all the wrong places, and the crumbs off the baguette-sandwiches they’d bought at a Carrefour an hour ago are sticking to his sweaty thighs like big grains of sand. He’s regretting getting into this goddamn van in the first place.***The band goes on holiday. John, for some reason, isn't fully prepared for the mess that is to come.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor, Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	deaky has regrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nowhereminded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhereminded/gifts).



> Hiya, macca babe. I've promised to post your birthday present terribly late because you forgot mine (i'm hanging our dirty laundry out in the open for all to see, yes), so here it is. three days late, basically. ain't that cool?  
> i genuinely hope you like this one. it's shite, i know, but still! it was a delight to write for you.  
> much love,  
> yer jawny  
> xxx

If we’re being completely honest, John has a reasonable amount of regrets in life. Some last for short moments, days at the most, like being too lazy to wash his hair in the morning and ending up looking like his head has been dipped in grease, or like drinking that one last vodka soda that would make him throw up and pass out while holding the loo in a loving embrace. Some will stretch across years, like how he didn’t tell his grandma he loved her before she passed, or how he’d yelled at his father when he said he wanted to move out. 

And some, some are somewhere in between. Regrets that span no more than a couple of weeks, quickly forgotten to look back upon with fond memories and a soft smile. 

Like right now. 

The temperature in the van is warm enough to wear light clothing, but cool enough to not sweat buckets. Still, John feels sticky in all the wrong places, and the crumbs off the baguette-sandwiches they’d bought at a Carrefour an hour ago are sticking to his sweaty thighs like big grains of sand. He’s regretting getting into this goddamn van in the first place.

John decided hours ago, around Calais, to put in his earphones and listen the playlist he and Brian compiled together a day or two before departure, preferring guilty pleasures of old rock and modern-ish autotune to the sounds of his friends. 

Roger and Brian are in the front, switching every couple of hours between driver and navigator, and bickering like the old married couple they are, having been together for the longest. Freddie and his boyfriend, Jim Hutton, are seated next to him, being disgustingly sweet. John had been quite miffed when he was told Veronica could not come with him, and though it had been Veronica herself refusing to join, he still projected his irritations onto his friends during the days leading up to their little holiday. They’d welcomed it with amused smiles and pats on the back (even more infuriating, in his humble opinion) and the issue had been forgotten.

Sort of.

Because he still wants Veronica here, goddammit. He’s gonna be a fucking fifth wheel the entire holiday.

The only upside is the landscape: it is, simply said, beautiful. He has _got_ to admit that. The mountains and streams, stretching forests and rolling fields filled with lavender that he gets a whiff of every time Roger, Freddie, or Jim rolls down a window to smoke a cig is relaxing enough for him to forget about his annoyance for a little while. Even the villages are picturesque and a sight to behold, with old churches and narrow streets that he itches to explore. France truly has a lot of stark differences with the cold and clammy UK he’s used to, and though he does think the countryside of his home country is beautiful as well, France has a certain kind of charm that the Britain cannot claim to have.

The b-route is Brian’s choice. _“Even though it will take us longer, it’s prettier,”_ he’d argued. John, Freddie, and Jim had all agreed, and Roger had complied with a grumble because Roger never complies to anything without a grumble. Secretly though, he’d also complied because he himself likes the challenge of driving down narrow mountain roads more than he does on just driving down the Autoroute. 

Besides, the villa Freddie and Roger had picked out costs a little more than the budget officially can handle, and the Autoroute is just too damn expensive. 

The following hours go by in a daze. The scenery barely changes; those rolling fields of lavender, the impressive mountains and deep valleys covered in forest amaze him continually, and so does the warmth. The evening, however, is starting to set in, so the world around the van is painted in a golden hue. _I Want It That Way_ by the Backstreet Boys (a song that Brian had added to their playlist after they’d rediscovered it on _Brooklyn 99_ and unironically loved it) is blasting in his ears, and he hums along quietly. He’d set his volume on high after Jim and Freddie had started making out and both Brian and Roger started screaming about public indecency. 

The small roads and mountain valleys slowly make place for highways and small towns. The countryside is still everywhere around them though, the rows and rows of neatly placed grapevines making him dizzy as Roger speeds them down the roads. John closes his eyes and places his head against the warm glass of the side window, letting out a sigh. Socially drained, that’s how he’s feeling. His bad mood is an effect of sleep deprivation and being stuck in a van with his obnoxious friends. He’d like to be alone, curled up in bed and listening to his own breathing, or dancing around the room to music. 

Or maybe, maybe he just _really_ wants to take a shower. That’s probably it.

 _I Want It That Way_ slowly fades into another generic pop song, and the preppy yet monotone riffs make him regret his and Brian’s decision of adding in songs that don’t entirely match both of their quite different tastes. He’s tempted to unlock his phone and just put on a Beatles album, or one of the Stones, or maybe even some lovely disco to make him feel more awake, but he’s too lazy to type in the passcode. 

The song fades into another pop song, and another, and John is very much questioning the ability of Spotify’s _shuffle_ -mode before all the sound seems to blend together one big mush of _baby_ ’s and _I-love-you_ ’s. 

Someone taps him on the shoulder. John blinks slowly and directed his gaze at the culprit, ready to scowl at them for interrupting his moment of rest, but Jim’s friendly face makes the snappy comment screech to a halt halfway on his tongue. He rubs his eyes and takes out one earphone.

“We’re at a petrol station,” Jim informs him, the strong Irish lilt to it making the words sound more melodic than they should be. “There’s a road restaurant attached to it, so we’re thinking of having dinner there before continuing. While Bri and Rog fill up and pay for gas, Fred and I are gonna stretch our legs. Care to join?”

John cracks a smile and clicks his seatbelt off, stretching a little. His bladder hurts. “Thanks Jim, but I’m gonna go take a piss first, alright?”

Jim merely nods with a smile and gives him a thumbs up, running off to wherever Freddie is. 

He slides the door of the van open, immediately hit by the strong smell of gasoline, and he wrinkles his nose a little before stepping out. Brian’s the one filling up the tank, Roger stood next to him, and he waves. “Hiya, Deaks!” he says with a smile, “had a good nap?”

John purses his lips in fake annoyance. “Not that great, thanks to you lot being loud enough to alert other drivers,” he answers, sliding the door shut and waving an exasperated hand through the air. He feels a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “Grief, Bri, could you and Rog argue any more like you’ve just celebrated your silver wedding anniversary despite having dated for just three years?”

Brian flushes a little and John is in a good enough mood not to mention it. Roger flips him off though, sticking his tongue out. “You’re just jealous you couldn’t sit shotgun, git. Go piss and keep your complaints to yourself.”

John barks out a laugh - a genuine one - and flips his friends off in retaliation. He starts walking in the directions of where he hopes the bathroom is, just as Brian and Roger start bickering again, and smiles to himself. 

It’s still impossibly warm, but not in an uncomfortable way: it’s a dry type of heat, as if he’s snuggled under some warm covers on a cold night, and he doesn’t feel as sweaty anymore as he did in the van in the middle of the day. The warmth intensifies all smells, though, and the scent of petrol is almost overwhelming. He crinkles his nose in disgust when he detects a hint of piss. 

The shop attached to the pump has air conditioning, and the effect of the cool gust of air blasting in his face is immediate, goose bumps spreading all over his body. He holds back a shiver and scans the shop, quickly walking towards the counter when he can’t find what he’s looking for. 

The attendant looks more bored than hostile when he smiles at her carefully. “Eh-” he starts, wracking his brain for basic French sentences he’d decided to study during the days leading up to their departure, “ooh- _où est la- la toilette?_ ”

He cringes at his pronunciation. The attendant doesn’t seem to mind though, pointing at a sign at the back of the shop with a smile. “ _Est là,_ ” she says, smiling when he gapes at the gigantic picture of a toilet on said sign. His cheeks burn bright red as he thanks her with a bunch of stuttered _merci_ ’s, and then proceeds to hurry towards the bathroom. 

It honestly could be a lot worse. The loos are clean and smell like lemon disinfectant, and the floor is only a little wet. After he’s finished, washed his hands, and is ready to leave, he decides to be gracious and put two euros instead of one on the little plate meant for tips - a decision fuelled purely by him being pleasantly surprised at the cleanliness of it all - and he smiles kindly at the filling station attendant. He’s in a good enough mood to playfully bump his hip against Brian’s as he’s walking in to pay, making the tall man stumble and almost fall into a row of neatly stacked crates of Panaché, and almost skips towards the picnic tables where he’s spotted Jim and Freddie. 

_“Evenin’,”_ he says, settling himself on the wood with a smile. Freddie, draped over the table like a model, only briefly stops to wave at him before he continues to chatter with his boyfriend. It’s something about cat care – how _cliché_ – and the best way to preserve roses. He’s tired enough to not try and join in on the conversation.

It’s a quiet evening apart from the continuous noise of cars passing. John enjoys the breeze wafting over him despite the slight aroma of piss, petrol, and dog poo; luckily, strongly fragrant flowers dot the edge of the field they’re sitting on, and it manages to mask the stench a bit. And so, as relaxation starts to set in, he leans back and directs his gaze towards the night sky. 

“We’re very close to our destination now, anyway,” Freddie’s voice is a whole lot louder all of a sudden, and when John looks up he knows the words are meant for him to hear. His best friend smiles widely and winks. “You’ll be in bed in no time, Deaky, no worries.”

“I’m pleased you’re acknowledging my exhaustion,” John replies with a grin, raising his eyebrows when Jim laughs jovially. 

“We’re all exhausted, honestly,” he says. “Methinks Bri is gonna drive the rest of the way. Don’t think Taylor’s gonna be up for it.”

Freddie tuts. “You underestimate the power of Rog’s stubbornness. He’s like a mule, darling, there’s no stopping him when he’s got his mind set on something.”

“Well,” Jim says, “I believe Brian is also a very stubborn man.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Speak of the devil.” John waves at the two silhouettes - one tall with curly hair, one shorter with spiky hair - approaching from the little store. “Took them a while, didn’t it? Anyway, I think Brimi will manage to grab the wheel, but they’ll argue the rest of the way.”

“Like they haven’t already,” Freddie mutters, and Jim tries and fails to swallow a snort. 

Brian is the first to arrive, long legs having sped up his pace. He’s obviously in dire need of giving them information on something he found out, judging by the way he’s almost bouncing in place. John hopes it’s not something about space that he thought of while taking a shit.

“The restaurant is nearly full and the food is disgusting,” he announces as soon as he’s close enough, successfully diminishing John’s fear, and he dumps a bunch of ready-made sandwiches on the picnic-table. “No vegetarian options. Disgraceful. We got this shit instead.”

“And it’s expensive,” Roger pipes up, and he wades through the too-long grass to put the soda’s next to the sandwiches. They quite literally fall out of his arms instead, one bottle of iced-tea landing on the ground. “So you better eat up, fuckers.”

John opens his sandwich carton without complaining.

Arrival, honestly, went splendidly.

They all piled out of the car and handed over their reservation to the bemused man sitting on the front porch, who’d obviously been waiting for them. The man – Monsieur Alain – handed over the keys after reading it with a small frown, before bidding them farewell with a happy _“bonne soirée!”._ As soon as Alain’s car had left the premises it was up to John to park it properly, so that everyone could take out their bags without having to carry them for an unnecessary distance. Not long after deciding and who got which room, they all passed out.

The next morning they’d all gotten up early, oh-so-positively. They hadn’t slept _that_ late, it being only half past eleven when they’d all arrived in their beds, and had apparently mutually decided on nine in the morning being a good, Christian time to leave their comfortable nests. Brian and John had visited the bakery, Roger had gotten cheese out of the cool box, Jim had prepared the tea, and Freddie had set the table. A perfect, very basic, very British Tourist Who Hasn’t Done The Shopping Yet breakfast, considering the only cheese they had was an old block of cheddar Roger had apparently gotten from the fridge before leaving for some unexplained reason – and nothing else.

After breakfast Brian and John had set out to clean up, while Jim, Freddie, and Roger had decided to take a splash in the pool. This, however, turned out to be a terrible mistake, considering they were in there for a few hours, the temperature was slowly rising into the thirties, and both Brian and John were melting despite being indoors.

And so, there’s where anyone could find John right now. Inside, spread out on one of the sofas in the spacious living room of their rented villa. In the ridiculously hot weather he’s yet to get used to, moving his little toe makes him sweat like _“a sinner in church”,_ as Bri had so graciously put it, so after feeling like he needed an ice bath despite only clearing the table and taking a brief shower he’d decided to deposit himself onto a free seating arrangement and not move for the following four or five hours or so. So far he’s kept onto that promise, it barely being two in the afternoon and him having not moved since lying down. His entertainment for the last couple of minutes has been a fly buzzing around foolishly that he’s following with eyes while leisurely sipping his beer. Truly fascinating little creatures, those bastards.

Brian and Roger are occupying the sofa opposite him, Roger on his belly and Brian straddling Roger’s legs as he pours aloe vera gel on the other boy’s back. He’s been burnt to a crisp, Roger has – he was stupid enough not to put sunscreen on before jumping into the pool, and the colour of his skin turned from very fair into a colour a cooked lobster would be jealous of within an hour. Poor, poor Brian had actually been in the exact same position John’s in at the moment, before Roger had stormed in with a wince on his pretty face and a gigantic bottle of after-sun lotion he has _obviously_ stolen from Freddie’s bag, demanding that his freakishly tall boyfriend _help him_ get to the places he _absolutely couldn’t_ reach all by himself because Brian would be a _dick_ otherwise and a fucking _shit boyfriend_. Roger’s _fucking shit boyfriend_ had been nursing a beer too, and it’s now resting on the coffee table, abandoned and slowly rising in temperature as the lad fulfils his duties.

The slam of the front door and muffled chattering signals the return of Freddie and Jim: they’d left for the supermarket to get some food for dinner and some condiments for breakfast about two hours ago, judging by the sound of multiple bags hitting the tiled floor of the entrance hall they haven’t exactly been frugal. He almost winces at the thought of an empty wallet before shaking it off, deeming it too much effort. God forbid he breaks a sweat over that.

Freddie and Jim enter the living room, dragging gigantic bags along with them, and he hears Brian sit up: he’s apparently used Roger as the place to push himself upright as Roger starts to curse like a bloody sailor, and John almost smiles.

Almost. It’s way too hot for any type of muscle movements. Honestly, even blinking is a hassle at the moment.

“Fred,” Brian sighs, sliding from the couch onto the cold tiled flooring and reaching for his beer, “will you _please_ remember to put on sunscreen next time?”

“What on _earth_ are you going on about, darling?” Freddie’s hair, having been swept back in a comically tiny ponytail at the back of his head this morning, is starting to free itself from its hold. The loose, curly strands that have fallen in front of his eyes are blown away with a huff. “I put on sunscreen every morning. It keeps my skin fresh. It’s long lasting. It’s _necessary.”_

“I’m not sure _fresh_ is the proper word for that, love.” Jim comments in a dry tone as he deposits some brie and large jugs of orange juice in the fridge. 

“Fresh, young, it’s all semantics my dear.” He waves his hand through the air, missing Jim’s nose by mere centimetres, and directs a shit-eating grin in Brian’s direction. “But it’s undoubtedly not my fault that Rog looks like a radish.”

“He’s got a _nose_ for trouble and will follow you everywhere if you’re up to something.” Brian sounds exasperated, and John at that moment deems it worth it to tilt his head up for a better view of what’ going on. “As if he’s going to think of _sunscreen_ when he doesn’t know you’re wearing some. Remember the first time he tried to boil an egg?”

There’s an awkward silence.

“He forgot” Brian says, “to add _water.”_

Roger sat leaned up a little. His face was also sunburnt, save for the outline of his favourite sunglasses. It made him look like a stereotypical British tourist. “In my defence, I didn’t know that you even need to add water if you want to boil an egg.”

The disappointed silence from Brian that follows speaks absolutely volumes and Roger turns, if possible, even redder because of the blood gathering in his cheeks. John can’t hold it in any longer and starts to snicker.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little arse, Taylor,” Jim states, though he had to swallow a hiccup of laughter. “Freddie still doesn’t know how to turn on the stove. At least you’ve got that down- OW!” 

Freddie stuffs his hand back into his tiny shorts with a sigh as Jim rubs his arse in an attempt to soothe the sting from the unexpected attack. The oldest of their group sighs, crosses his arms, and glares at Brian. “Like I _said,_ Roger is a full-grown adult. I reckon he can think of putting on sunscreen _all_ by himself now, even if he cannot boil an egg to save his life.

Roger winks from the sofa. “You’re giving me too much credit, Fred,” he says, and his grin is mischievous. “Honestly, how long have you known me by now? You should _know_ by now that I have zero regard for my personal wellbeing.”

Brian, still seated on the floor, opens his arms in a _‘I-fucking-told-you-so’_ -gesture and stares a scowling Freddie down with a smug smile. John merely sighs, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. If he hadn’t been aware that this holiday might be the most fun holiday he’ll ever have, he’d be filled with regrets already. But he isn’t, somehow.

But, dear _God,_ he’s surrounded by _idiots._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are very appreciated :)


End file.
